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daceytheshebear · 9 months

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My Oak Leaf Dress post is getting some traction again years after it was first posted, and it got me wondering if tumblr might be more fertile groud to talk about some Arya Stark-centered analysis of mine I feel never got the attention it deserved in the westeros.org forum?

Okay, have you noticed that Arya's five chapters in AGOT have very very strong parallels to Arya’s five chapters in Feast/Dance? I've cataloged them and it blows my mind that more people aren't dissecting it. If we take into consideration that the AFFC and ADWD were supposed to one book, Arya has exactly the same amount of chapters as she had in book one, which is much less than she had in ACOK or ASOS. A pity in my opinion, as I love to read her, but I believe this is not a coincidence on Martin’s part as there seem to be several parallels between what Arya experiences in the first book and the last two. I’ll compare:

AGOT Arya I to AFFC Arya I

AGOT Arya II to AFFC Arya II

AGOT Arya III to AFFC Cat of the Canals

AGOT Arya IV to ADWD The Blind Girl

AGOT Arya V to ADWD The Ugly Little Girl

So, AGOT Arya I / AFFC Arya I: Both take place in a different setting from the other four chapters (Winterfell vs. Kings Landing for AGOT, the ship The Titan's Daughter vs. the city of Braavos in AFFC and ADWD). In both we have Arya directly interacting with two siblings, one who is two years older than her and whose place she would like to be able to occupy (Sansa with all her ladylike abilities, Denyo who is a cabin boy) and another who is older and more guarded and with whom she has important conversations about the ways of the world (Jon Snow and the talk about bastards and girls and Yorko and all the exposition about Bravosi culture). Quotes about Sansa and Denyo:

It wasn't fair. Sansa had everything. Sansa was two years older; maybe by the time Arya had been born, there had been nothing left. Often it felt that way. Sansa could sew and dance and sing. She wrote poetry. She knew how to dress. She played the high harp and the bells. Worse, she was beautiful. Sansa had gotten their mother's fine high cheekbones and the thick auburn hair of the Tullys. Arya took after their lord father.

And

Denyo had taken her up to the crow's nest once, and she hadn't been afraid at all, though the deck had seemed a tiny thing below her. I can do sums too, and keep a cabin neat. But the galleas had no need of a second boy.

In both chapters we have adults who are not really happy to be in charge of Arya, who are associated with the color grey, and who frown at Arya with similar phrasing (septa Mordane and Tradesman-Captain Ternesio Terys). I'll give you the quotes:

Septa Mordane raised her eyes. She had a bony face, sharp eyes, and a thin lipless mouth made for frowning. It was frowning now. "What are you talking about, children?"

And

Arya turned to find Denyo's father looming over them in his long captain's coat of purple wool. Tradesman-Captain Ternesio Terys wore no whiskers and kept his grey hair cut short and neat, framing his square, windburnt face. On the crossing she had oft seen him jesting with his crew, but when he frowned men ran from him as if before a storm. He was frowning now. "Our voyage is at an end," he told Arya.

In one of the chapters Arya is said to be “too skinny to hold a sword” and in the other she is “too small to man an oar”. Both chapters end with Arya entering rooms where two authority figures await for her (septa Mordane and Catelyn in her room AGOT, the kindly man and the waif inside the House of Black and White in AFFC).

AGOT Arya II / AFFC Arya II: In both chapters a long time has elapsed between Arya I and Arya II. In both chapters Arya feels very isolated from people around her (in AGOT she is mourning Mycah, angry at her father’s men who let the boy be murdered and sad that even Sansa “wouldn’t talk to her unless their father made her”, in AFFC Arya takes the other servants of the HoBaW for mutes until she hears them praying, they never talk to her and Umma, who does talk, speaks in a language she can’t understand.

In both chapters we have vivid descriptions of rich food Arya eats, which is very rare in her story because she is underfed most of the time. In both chapters Needle is discovered (in AGOT Ned sees the sword, in AFFC the waif catches Arya training).

In both chapters she has a very important conversation about lies (Arya tells her father Sansa lied about not knowing what happened at the Trident, and Ned says to her: "We all lie" and later says that some lies are “not without honor”, meanwhile the kindly man says to Arya “All men lie when they are afraid. Some tell many lies, some but a few. Some have only one great lie they tell so often that they almost come to believe it”).

In both chapters Arya promises to obey:

“This willfulness of yours, the running off, the angry words, the disobedience… at home, these were only the summer games of a child. Here and now, with winter soon upon us, that is a different matter. It is time to begin growing up." "I will," Arya vowed. She had never loved him so much as she did in that instant. "I can be strong too. I can be as strong as Robb."

In AFFC the kindly man tells Arya

“Remain if you will, but know that we shall require your obedience. At all times and in all things. If you cannot obey, you must depart." "I can obey." [...] “It takes uncommon strength of body and spirit, and a heart both hard and strong [to be a faceless man]" I have a hole where my heart should beand nowhere else to go. "I'm strong. As strong as you. I'm hard."

In Both chapters Arya is said to be beautiful (a word that is not used to describe her in any other occasion). In both words Arya explicitly refuses feminine roles (in AGOT she tells Ned she doesn’t want to be a lady, in AFFC she thinks she wanted none of the placements the kindly man offers her, with courtesans where she would “sleep on rose petals and wear silken skirts that rustle when [she] walks” or “marriage and children”).

In both chapters Arya uses rocks to save a part of herself: in AGOT she recounts to Ned how she had to throw stones at Nymeria for her to stop following and be saved from the Lannister men who would execute her (we hope Arya will reunite with Nymeria again), and in AFFC she hides Needle behind a loose stone step to keep it safe for later (we hope she will retrieve it at some point).

Another plot-point that repeats between the two chapters is the introduction of a teacher. Arya II in AGOT opens in a dinner scene in the Small Hall ends with the introduction of Syrio Forel in the same Small Hall, where Arya begins to learn water dancing. Syrio says “now we dance”. Arya II in AFFC starts with Arya reciting her list, and ends after the Waif becomes Arya’s teacher on the braavosi language and the lying game (she actively compares what she is learning now with the lessons she once had from Syrio) and then Arya finally leaves the temple, reciting her list like in the beginning (so both chapters start and finish “in the same place”) and saying she is “so happy she could dance”.

AGOT Arya III / AFFC Cat of the Canals: Okay so in AGOT Arya II, Arya assumes a “fake identity” for the first time ever! Tommen and Myrcella mistake her for a peasant boy, and she acts the part. In her third chapter in AFFC this is taken up to the next level and this is the first time her chapter title changes when she takes the identity of Cat. Cats! Of course, Arya II in AGOT is that one chapter that is all about cats, she talks about pursuing them and she finally kisses Balerion. She then becomes Cat in her third chapter in AFFC, and reminisces about chasing cats in the Red Keep in that chapter!

There is a sense of expanding horizons in both these chapters. Arya leaves the Red Keep for the first time in AGOT Arya III, and walks back from the Blackwater all the way to the castle. In her third AFFC chapter, Arya is exploring the city of Braavos after having finally been allowed out of the temple. She is also very cheeky in both these chapters! Arya interacting with the guards of the Red Keep is hilarious, and very similar to how she acts when being her Cat persona.

Nightmares. Arya experiences vivid, terrible nightmares in both these third chapters (and in her third chapter in ASOS). In AGOT she hears her father’s voice becoming fainter and fainter in her dreams, which some have interpreted as foreshadowing for Ned’s death and as a sign that Arya may have precognitive abilities. In AFFC it’s her mother she hears screaming. Both these chapters also explore and detail the place Arya inhabits. In AGOT Arya III the Red Keep is heavily featured, and it’s described as an “endless stone maze”. In AFFC Cat takes us all around Braavos, which of course is a “crooked city” with all its buildings made out of stone.

Daenerys is mentioned!! Illyrio and Varys discuss “the princess with child” in AGOT Arya III, and tales of “dragons hatching” reach Cat in AFFC. Daenerys isn’t mentioned in any other Arya chapters.

Retelling overheard stories features heavily in both chapters. Arya tries to convey to Ned what she overheard and is casually dismissed. In Cat of the Canals, Arya is learning to actively overhear conversations and gather information and retells them to the kindly man with caution.

Bathing is also present in both chapters. Arya usually doesn’t really enjoy bathing in ACOK and ASOS, but both in AGOT Arya III and in Cat of the Canals, on the other hands, we witness Arya disrobing and cleaning her body of her own volition, getting rid of bad smells in almost ritualized cleansing. Compare the quotes from AGOT, Arya III:

She found herself standing at the mouth of a sewer where it emptied into the river. She stank so badly that she stripped right there, dropping her soiled clothing on the riverbank as she dove into the deep black waters. She swam until she felt clean, and crawled out shivering.

and AFFC, Cat of the Canals:

Down in the vaults, she untied Cat's threadbare cloak, pulled Cat's fishy brown tunic over her head, kicked off Cat's salt-stained boots, climbed out of Cat's smallclothes, and bathed in lemonwater to wash away the very smell of Cat of the Canals. When she emerged, soaped and scrubbed pink with her brown hair plastered to her cheeks, Cat was gone.

One of the most important parallels in this set of chapters regards the Night’s Watch. It is in Arya III AGOT that Arya for the first ever interacts with a black brother, when she meets Yoren. Although Arya isn’t aware of it, it was Yoren’s death that made it possible for Dareon leave Eastwatch and go to Braavos in the first place, as the singer was assigned by Jon Snow to take up the role of recruiter that used to be Yoren’s. Yoren had other roles as well, including that of Arya’s protector. The first encounter she has with each of the two black brothers show us just how much Arya has changed. She thinks of Yoren:

He was stooped and ugly, with an unkempt beard and unwashed clothes. [...] The old man in his smelly black clothes was looking at her oddly, but Arya could not seem to stop talking.

While Arya can’t stop herself from rambling to Yoren, she has learned not to share all of her thoughts by the time she meets Dareon. This is the quote:

He is fair of face and foul of heart, thought Arya, but she did not say it

Also, in both this chapters she goes blind! “She was blind.” That sentence shows up exactly like that, word for word, in both chapters. Of course in AFFC she actually becomes blind, while in AGOT she is only in a really really dark room. But still. The wording! And structurally speaking, while the last pair of chapters starts and finish “in the same place”, now both of these chapters start with a more light-hearted tone to then plunge into really dark territory, literally and metaphorically, as Arya hears the threats to her family whispered in the dark in AGOT and kills Dareon to then goes blind in AFFC.

AGOT Arya IV / ADWD The Blind Girl:

Considering AFFC and ADWD as one long long book, Blind Girl is Arya’s fourth chapter. Arya’s fourth chapter in AGOT is the one in which she gets that all-important lesson when Syrio Forel tells her to “look with her eyes”. He also touches upon her other senses though:

“The heart lies and the head plays tricks with us, but the eyes see true. Look with your eyes. Hear with your ears. Taste with your mouth. Smell with your nose. Feel with your skin. Then comes the thinking, afterward, and in that way knowing the truth."

Syrio says all that! And while Arya looks with her eyes in several moments of the story and this true seeing literally saves her life more than once, she never does explore her other senses that much… until she goes blind in ADWD. In The Blind Girl we get:

Hear, smell, taste, feel, she reminded herself. There are many ways to know the world for those who cannot see. [...] "You have five senses, learn to use the other four, you will have fewer cuts and scrapes and scabs"

Also, both chapters feature scenes where Arya in engaged in training with someone to improve her martial skills. While she practiced her needlework on her own all throughout ASOS, this is the first time she does so with someone else since Syrio in AGOT Arya IV! The way the two fights are described is incredibly similar, with the descriptions of rights and lefts and right and lefts, and the clacking sound of wood, her opponent “cheating” (coming from the “wrong” side) and there is a “sudden stinging” cut which catches her by surprise. It’s very very similar, go reread it if you don't believe me.

Another really important parallel regards skinchanging: in Arya’s fourth chapter in AGOT, Arya is helpless after witnessing the horrors that took place at the Tower of the Hand. The narration tells us “she was only a little girl with a wooden stick, alone and afraid” (the wooden stick here is her practice sword). And than, to escape, she pretends she is chasing cats… “except she was the cat now”. I kid you not, this is the exact wording used. She is the cat now, and that is what empowers her to keep going. In ADWD, when Arya is most definitely LITERALLY just a little blind girl with a wooden stick, she actually skinchanges into a cat for the first time, and that is what finally empowers her against her mentor/abuser. She “becomes a cat” in both chapters

Also, it is in The Blind Girl chapter that we learn that “the Sealord is dying”, which is comparable (both from doylist’s and watsonian perspectives) to Robert Baratheon dying, exactly what happens around Arya IV. Now a bit of a stretch: in AFFC "The Merling Queen has chosen a new Mermaid to take the place of the one that drowned. She is the daughter of a Prestayn serving maid, thirteen and penniless, but lovely." I propose the new mermaid might stand in for Jeyne Poole. While the new Mermaid is the daughter of a Prestayn’s serving maid, and we know Prestayn be a noble house, Jayne is the daughter of the Stark’s steward. Petyr Baelish, who is connected with the braavosi galley The Merling King, takes charge of Jayne, who is then a twelve year-old.The “Mermaids” are actually described to be “young maidens in the blush of their first flowering who hold [the Merling Queen’s] train and do her hair”. Of course, same as the Mermaids are being trained to become courtesans, Jeyne will be trained in a brothel to become Ramsay’s bride.

AGOT Arya V / ADWD The Ugly Little Girl: Okay, so Arya V makes me sad from the very first line to the very last. The situation is hopeless, Arya is helpless. King’s Landing is unwelcoming and claustrophobic, the people range from rude to downright mean. The people of the city likely look at her with suspicious eyes, and as much as Arya has told us she loved nothing more than to be underfoot and mingle with the common people of Winterfell, the experience in King’s Landing is traumatizing, and it ends with her father beheaded. Oh joy. In A Dance with Dragons the waif describes how people will react to the ugly little girl Arya will become after she changes her face for the first time:

"Women will look away when they see you. Children will stare and point. Strong men will pity you, and some may shed a tear."

For reasons very different than a destroyed face, this sounds very similar to what Arya experiences in King’s Landing. I find the overall tone of The Ugly Little Girl chapter to be rather analogous to that of Arya V. Arya is in the HoBaW because is certain she has nowhere else to go. Life is easier now than when she was blind, but she doesn’t feel very comfortable – and yet goes through with all that is asked of her. Though not helpless anymore, she is more hopeless than ever before. She experiences physical pain and nightmares; she is questioned and constantly told she doesn’t have what it takes to be in the only place that has been a steady roof over her head in years.

Before undergoing her magical transformation in ADWD, Arya is given a tart drink. This is the quote:

She drank it down at once. It was very tart, like biting into a lemon. A thousand years ago, she had known a girl who loved lemon cakes. No, that was not me, that was only Arya.

In AGOT Arya V, we get this:

Arya would have given anything for a cup of milk and a lemon cake,

In fact, lemons come up very scarcely in Arya’s whole story. She only thinks about the fruit in her inner monologues in Arya V and The Ugly Little Girl, both times prompted from external stimuli (there is the lemon tart she could not steal moments before she wishes for the lemon cake in AGOT, and the magical tart drink she is given in The Ugly Little Girl). The word comes up a handful of times in A Storm of Swords while Arya is in the company of Lem Lemoncloak, but the fruit not so much.

Another parallel between this pair of chapters comes in the form of Arya’s target, the binder salesman. The man Arya targets for the faceless men in ADWD is described in a way that calls back to Petyr Baelish (pointed beard, thin lips) and Yoren (a hard face, mean eyes, crooked shoulders), both of which Arya encounters in her fifth chapter in AGOT.

Eddard Starks beheading is a moment full of similarities to Arya’s “defacing” by the kindly man. This is from AGOT Arya V:

The old man shook her so hard her teeth rattled. "Shut your mouth and close your eyes, boy." Dimly, as if from far away, she heard a… a noise… a soft sighing sound, as if a million people had let out their breath at once.

and this is from ADWD The Ugly Little Girl:

"Sit," the priest commanded. She sat. "Now close your eyes, child." She closed her eyes. "This will hurt," he warned her, "but pain is the price of power. Do not move."

And of course what follows her closing her eyes in AGOT hurts much more deeply than having her forehead slashed. In A Game of Thrones, Arya opens her eyes to finally recognize Yoren. He then giver her Needle back, and drags her to a doorframe where he cuts her hair to give her a new identity, that of Arry. This is the quote from Arya V:

As the blade flashed toward her face, Arya threw herself backward, kicking wildly, wrenching her head from side to side, but he had her by the hair, so strong, she could feel her scalp tearing, and on her lips the salt taste of tears.

and this is the quote from The Ugly Little Girl:

She sat unmoving. The cut was quick, the blade sharp. By rights the metal should have been cold against her flesh, but it felt warm instead. She could feel the blood washing down her face, a rippling red curtain falling across her brow and cheeks and chin, and she understood why the priest had made her close her eyes. When it reached her lips the taste was salt and copper.

That's it! If you are interested in a more in-depth analysis check my original post from (five!!) years ago .

#arya stark #valyrianscrolls #asoiaf meta #asoiaf #a song of ice and fire #a feast for crows #a dance with dragons #book!arya #arya stark meta #a game of thrones

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cloudcountry · 2 months

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auburn my wifey my kitten whiskers my sugar plum darling, can we add Cove Holden to our marriage please?

OMG OF COURSE MY LOVELY SWEET GORGEOUS WIFEY WHOM I LOVE VERY MUCH we can do anything you want

#melice <3

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saveregblackordie0726 · 4 days

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Sombre et Pur'

Chapter 10

Sixth Year – 1976 – October 31

The weeks leading up to Halloween felt like a blur of forced normalcy. Patrols with Regulus became a chilling game of avoidance. He maintained a rigid distance, the very air between us crackling with unspoken hostility. We walked in silence, his icy demeanor a stark reminder of the unsettling encounter in the Astronomy Tower. Surprisingly, I preferred the silent tension to his cruel provocations. It offered a semblance of control, an illusion of peace in the midst of the storm raging within.

Lily, with her usual enthusiastic flair, had been consumed with costume planning for weeks. Her choice – an angel, of course – was so perfectly fitting that it bordered on cliché. Her halo sparkled with what I suspected were real diamonds, and her flowing white robes were made of silk so fine it seemed to shimmer with celestial light. She had spent hours perfecting her makeup, aiming for an ethereal glow that would put the moon itself to shame.

Amidst Lily's angelic preparations, I played my own supporting role. I helped James and Sirius spread the word about the Halloween bash, delicately balancing secrecy with generating enough buzz to ensure a decent turnout. There was a reckless thrill in defying the rules, in claiming a space where we could, even for one night, cast off the shadows of the war looming outside the castle walls.

The night before the party, under the cloak of darkness, Remus, James, and I slipped into the kitchens. Remus, bless his ever-pragmatic soul, had struck a deal. Madam Rosmerta with promises of increased patronage for several weeks and a few extra galleons. The result was a generous supply of whiskey and Fire whiskey that, with a flick of James's wand and a muttered doubling charm, promised enough alcohol to fuel any party.

With pockets overflowing with enchanted candy and baskets filled with stolen treats, we crept out of Hogwarts kitchens feeling like a band of merry bandits. The weight of stolen pastries in my pocket mingled with a giddy sense of rebellion, and for the first time in weeks, I felt a genuine sliver of joy pierce through the persistent gloom.

Halloween night arrived with an electric energy that crackled through the ancient castle. Old Nick had generously offered to share their celebration room, with promises of secrecy in exchange for copious trays of rotting meat. The room had been transformed into a den of spooky delights. Glowing jack-o'-lanterns flickered in corners, their grinning faces reflecting the boisterous energy of the gathered students. Cauldrons bubbled with mysterious, sweet-smelling liquids, and cobweb-draped tables overflowed with treats. The scent of pumpkin spice and spiced cider hung heavy in the air, an intoxicating blend that promised both mischief and merriment in equal measure.

Lily's dormitory was a whirlwind of feathers, glitter, and frantic last-minute adjustments. Dorcas, dressed as a mesmerizing siren with shimmering scales and a crown of seashells, deftly applied shimmering eyeshadow to Marlene, who had transformed into a convincingly rebellious Joan Jett. Alice, her pale features accentuated by dark lips and a enchanted whiskers, checked out her cat-suit in the floor length mirror. Then it was my turn. Lily and Dorcas, armed with an arsenal of hair products and charms, skillfully teased and coaxed my auburn hair into soft, cascading waves. They carefully painted my face, highlighting my cheekbones with a shimmery bronze and subtly darkening my eyes with smoky browns and greens. My costume, the result of weeks of clandestine collaboration with my artistic roommate Beatrice, was an enigmatic creation. It hinted at something nocturnal, yet ethereal.

My dress, a short concoction of shimmering emerald silk overlaid with delicate layers of brown and bronze chiffon, swirled around my legs with every movement. But the centerpiece, the part that made Beatrice beam with pride, were the wings. They were attached like a backpack of sorts and extended nearly three feet on either side. Each feather, painstakingly crafted from dyed parchment and wire, was a work of art. They shimmered with vibrant yellows and earthy greens, enchanted by Lily to open and close every few seconds, leaving a simmering of glittery dust behind.

A mask, in the same rich hues as my dress, obscured the upper half of my face. It sparkled with strategically placed flecks of glitter, catching the flickering candlelight as I moved. Beatrice had insisted on a final touch, liberally dusting my hair, shoulders, and exposed skin with a shimmering gold powder that gave me the appearance of having stepped straight out of a moonlit forest clearing.

As I surveyed myself in the mirror, a strange mixture of nerves and excitement danced in my stomach. The costume felt like an armor of sorts, a way to hide behind a carefully crafted facade. Unlike Lily's overt celestial beauty, or Marlene's edgy rebellion, my disguise was more subtle, a whispered secret rather than an open declaration.

A collective gasp from the girls snapped me out of my thoughts. "Oh, Clem!" Alice exclaimed; her eyes wide with delight. "You look absolutely magical!"

Marlene whistled appreciatively, and even Dorcas, with her penchant for gothic darkness, grudgingly offered a nod of approval. Their affirmations swirled around me, a warm bath against the lingering chill of the last few weeks.

A flicker of apprehension gnawed at my edges as I waved the girls on ahead. They disappeared down the corridor, a whirlwind of feathers, leather, and glitter, leaving me alone in the deserted dorm.

"I'll be down in a minute!" I called after them, my voice echoing slightly in the sudden silence. Turning back to the full-length mirror, I hesitated, a familiar wave of insecurity washing over me. Did the dress make my legs look too long? Was there too much glitter on my collarbone? Was the concept too obscure, too strange?

Banishing the doubts with a determined shake of my head, I took a deep breath and turned away from my reflection. The costume, the party, the carefully constructed facade – it was all a temporary distraction, a shield against the encroaching darkness. There was no point dwelling on appearances when the weight of a silent war hung heavy between me and Regulus.

Descending the spiral staircase to the Gryffindor common room, I was startled to find Peter waiting, his customary nervousness amplified beneath a tall, pointed wizard's hat. He straightened hurriedly at my entrance, his eyes widening in surprise as they took in my appearance.

Peter had changed over the years. His frame, once soft and slightly pudgy, had hardened. Though still on the stocky side, there was a new solidity to him, a hint of strength in his shoulders and the line of his jaw. He was less of a timid boy and more a young man, still navigating the awkwardness of adolescence but with a flicker of determination in his eyes.

"C-Clem," he stammered, a faint blush creeping up his neck. "You ... Wow."

A warm smile spread across my face, genuine and unforced. "Peter," I teased gently, tucking an escaped tendril of hair behind my ear, "Why are you still here?"

He grinned sheepishly, ducking his head in a gesture that reminded me of the shy second-year I'd befriended all those years ago. "W-Waiting for you," he admitted. "Lily."

Understanding dawned. The worry etched on Lily's face before disappearing down the corridor flickered in my mind. Of course, she wouldn't want me wandering alone, not with the ever-present threat of darkness bubbling just beneath the surface of our revelry. She likely instructed Peter to be my escort, her own version of a watchful guardian angel. I felt a rush of fondness for both of them; their unwavering loyalty was a beacon in the storm.

“Shall we then, Peter?" I asked with a playful curtsey, offering him my arm.

His answering smile was wide and genuine as he led me out of the portrait hole. The walk to the dungeons, our usual route to a vacant classroom for shared study sessions, felt different tonight. The flickering torchlight painted the corridors in an air of mystery, and a festive buzz vibrated through the very stones of the castle. Peter and I, normally comfortable in our shared silences, seemed to find our tongues loosened by the unique atmosphere.

"I saw you practicing with Beatrice in the courtyard," Peter remarked, his voice low. "Your wings, they're ...incredible."

"She's an artistic genius," I agreed. The wings were Beatrice's masterpiece, the culmination of our whispered conversations about elusive creatures and forgotten lore.

Sensing an opportunity, I turned the conversation towards him. "So, a classic wizard, Peter? Are you planning on casting any real spells tonight?" I teased.

He blushed again, a charming contrast to his serious wizarding attire. "Maybe a charm or two," he admitted, a hint of mischief in his eyes. "I've been practicing."

Our conversation continued, a lighthearted blend of observations on the passing costumes, playful bets on how much pumpkin juice James would consume, and Peter's reluctant admission that he'd been working up the courage to dance with a Ravenclaw girl for weeks. The ease of our banter was both comforting and bittersweet. We were growing up, changing, and the unspoken fear was that the threads of our friendship might fray as our paths diverged.

To avoid the congested main corridors, Peter steered us towards a hidden passage known only to a select few. He navigated the maze of dim corridors and crumbling staircases with a surprising confidence, a stark contrast to the timid boy who used to follow in the confident stride of his friends.

"Nearly there," he announced as we rounded a corner into a forgotten stretch of corridor lined with dusty portraits.

A soft glow emanated from behind a iron-barred doorway. With a grin, Peter pushed aside the heavy gate, revealing a pathway pulsating with muffled music and the excited murmur of a crowd.

The makeshift party space seemed a world away from the rest of the castle. The dungeons, usually cold and imposing, had been transformed into a den of spooky delights. Glowing skulls hung from the ceiling while enchanted bats swooped playfully through the air, narrowly missing the heads of giggling students. The room throbbed with a chaotic energy – masked figures danced with wild abandon, groups huddled by a makeshift bar, exchanging gossip and scandalous rumors, and in one corner, a particularly dedicated group was attempting to levitate a protesting cat.

The roar of the party hit us like a wave as we stepped through the hidden entrance. Laughter, shouts, and the pounding rhythm of an unfamiliar tune assaulted our senses, a delicious change from the quiet order of our everyday lives. I glanced at Peter, who was surveying the scene with wide eyes and a hint of anxious excitement, and couldn't help but grin. His determinedly calm facade was endearing, a testament to his bravery in venturing into the center of such boisterous chaos.

Peter followed my gaze as we weaved through the throng of students, their laughter washing over us like a warm tide. He nudged my arm, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Look, isn't that Prongs?" he exclaimed, pointing towards a tall figure clad in surprisingly realistic chainmail.

My eyes followed his gesture and landed on James, resplendent in a knight costume that seemed far closer to authentic armor than a hastily assembled outfit. He was leaning casually against a stone pillar, his gaze scanning the crowd. Upon spotting us, his face split into a wide grin, and he lifted his tankard in a silent salute.

We navigated towards him, pushing through groups of giggling vampires, superheroes who had clearly raided their parents' wardrobes, and what appeared to be a colony of particularly enthusiastic house-elves. As we drew closer, a familiar face appeared next to James, her fiery red hair and shimmering halo unmistakable.

"Clem! Peter! Over here!" Lily called out, a radiant smile illuminating her face. She straightened from where she had been leaning against James, her cheeks slightly flushed. "Have a drink," she urged, extending two intricately carved silver goblets brimming with a suspiciously pink liquid.

I took a tentative sip, my eyes widening as a fiery warmth burned its way down my throat. "Merlin's Beard!" I choked, fighting back a cough, "I thought Remus was in charge of the punch?"

James, never one to miss an opportunity for a dramatic reveal, puffed out his chest. "I nicked the job from dear Moony," he announced grandly. "He was far too focused on choosing the perfect party playlist." A smug grin spread across his face as Lily swatted at his arm with playful exasperation.

"Honestly, sometimes I wonder how you lot ever pass your exams," she muttered, though her lips twitched in amusement.

The warmth of the alcohol and the contagious energy of the crowd washed away some of the lingering unease that clung to me like a shadow. Here, in this hidden dungeon filled with music and laughter, the darkness gnawing at the edges of my world seemed distant, muffled by the thumping bass and punctuated by the clinking of glasses.

Peter, emboldened by the punch and the infectious spirit of the festivities, shed his usual reserve with surprising speed. He challenged a group of Hufflepuffs to a particularly raucous game of wizarding charades, his impromptu performance of a banshee earning him raucous applause. Later, I spotted him locked in an intense conversation with the same Ravenclaw girl he had admired from afar, a wide, shy smile on his face. It was heartwarming to see him blossom, to witness the quiet courage that had been growing within him all these years.

Lily, ever the life of the party, had taken charge of the dance floor. She whirled and twirled with reckless abandon, her laughter echoing through the room. Her angel wings shimmered with every movement, casting dazzling reflections on the stone walls and drawing admiring glances from every corner of the room.

James hovered nearby, his knightly persona morphing into that of a devoted attendant. He replenished her drink, adjusted her halo when it inevitably slipped, and generally basked in the glow of her radiant smile. I felt a pang of wistfulness, a reminder of the unspoken question lingering between them, the tantalizing possibility of something more than friendship. They were so perfectly in sync, so obviously meant for each other, that it seemed almost cruel the universe was making them wait.

The crowd pulsed and swayed around us, a blur of shimmering costumes and joyful faces. Yet, amidst the revelry, a lingering awareness of Regulus nagged at the edges of my consciousness. There was a dissonance in my enjoyment, a guilt in letting myself drown in laughter while he lurked in the shadows, his icy gaze a persistent weight upon me.

It was as if the universe read my thoughts. In a brief lull between songs, as snippets of hushed conversations drifted around me, I caught it – the name that sent shivers down my spine. A hushed whisper, carried on the wind of gossip that wound through any gathering:

"...Black... heard he crashed the party..."

Instinct took over. My eyes darted across the crowd, a desperate search for a familiar figure shrouded in darkness, for a glimpse of stormy grey eyes that could extinguish the fleeting joy within me like a snuffed-out flame. My gaze swept over disguised faces, half-hidden by elaborate masks, desperately seeking any sign of him.

But he was nowhere to be seen. Relief washed over me in a cool wave, followed quickly by a pang of guilt at finding comfort in his absence. The music surged back to life, the crowd roaring its approval, yet the whispers lingered. Regulus, even unseen, was a specter haunting the edges of my joy, a stark reminder of the war that would inevitably seep back into these ancient halls, poisoning even the most lighthearted of celebrations.

Over the thumping beat and the roar of the crowd, a familiar voice penetrated the haze of merry chaos. My eyes darted across the room, a flicker of recognition replacing the disoriented confusion.

"Kit!" The call came again, followed by a waving hand and a familiar flash of dark hair. Relief mixed with a flicker of apprehension washed over me as I spotted Sirius weaving through the crowd. Beside him, Remus navigated the party with a quieter ease, his eyes sweeping the room with a watchful attentiveness that never truly faded. They were joined by Katie, resplendent in a figure-hugging blood-red mini dress with elaborate, lacy bat wings, ripped stockings, and a smoldering gaze fueled by smoky makeup and a healthy dose of party punch.

With a final weave around a group of particularly enthusiastic werewolves, they reached my side at the edge of the dance floor. Sirius wrapped me in a bone-crushing hug, the scent of Fire whiskey strong on his breath. He released me, holding me at arm's length to assess my costume, a drunken grin plastered on his face.

"Don't get too sloshed, Pads," I teased, grabbing the empty goblet from his hand and accepting the replacement he offered. As I took a sip, the potent punch burned a fiery path down my throat, bringing tears to my eyes.

"Ugh, don't remind me," he chuckled, the memory of last year's disastrous Halloween party apparently still fresh in his mind. "Kit, you look bloody brilliant!"

I flushed at the genuine compliment, the warmth spreading through me despite the cool air of the dungeon. My wings fluttered slightly in unconscious response, and a touch of the shy, insecure girl I used to be peeked through.

His attention flitted to Peter, who stood slightly behind me, a tentative smile on his face. "Pettigrew, fancy a proper drink?" Sirius asked, winking at Peter, who nodded eagerly. The two of them disappeared towards the makeshift bar with surprising speed.

I returned my attention to my friends. Remus, less talkative than his boisterous counterpart, offered a warm smile and a squeeze of my shoulder.

"You look beautiful, Clem," he said, his voice low and sincere.

A comfortable silence fell for a moment as we took in the scene before us. Nearby, a group of spectral figures in tattered clothing glided around a table laden with rotting meat, placed there for their ghostly enjoyment. The acrid smell of smoke filled my nostrils, the source quickly revealed as Katie, Remus, and Sirius passed around a suspiciously rolled cigarette.

"Clem!" Katie shrieked, drawing me back from my momentary observation of the resident ghosts. She abandoned her post at the spectral snack table and swept me into an enthusiastic hug, nearly knocking the precarious mask off my head. The pungent scent of patchouli clung to her, an intoxicating mixture with the faint hints of smoke and spilled punch.

Releasing me, she gestured towards a tall boy standing beside her. He had a shock of curly brown hair and a friendly smile that put him oddly at ease in the midst of the drunken revelry.

"This is Ed—" she began, then paused, a frown momentarily creasing her brow.

"—Eddie, right?" I finished for her, a jolt of recognition hitting me. I'd seen him around the common room, usually buried in a Charms textbook or quietly playing a game of chess with another student in a forgotten corner.

"Right!" Katie chirped, clearly relieved that I remembered. "Seventh Year, Hufflepuff," she added proudly. Eddie offered a polite smile and a slightly awkward wave. He seemed sweet, his nervousness endearing in the face of Katie's exuberant confidence.

I took a drag from the spliff Katie passed me. The smoke filled my lungs, leaving a slightly acrid taste on my tongue. I exhaled slowly, a cloud of hazy smoke dancing before my eyes. The alcohol and the smoke combined to create a pleasantly disorienting effect. The music pounded in my chest, the laughter and conversation swirled around me, and the worries that lingered in my sober mind began to fade.

As the night wore on, I let myself fall deeper into the haze of smoke and laughter. Tucked into the shadowy corner of the dungeon, Katie, Remus, Sirius, Eddie, and I formed a cozy island amidst the raging sea of partygoers. Peter hovered somewhere nearby, his cheeks flushed as he engaged in an animated conversation with the Ravenclaw girl who, by the looks of it, was thoroughly charmed by my usually reserved friend.

Katie regaled us with dramatic tales of Quidditch victories and near-death experiences with rogue Bludgers. Her voice rose above the din of the party, laced with laughter and an enthusiasm that was both captivating and infectious. Sirius, never one to miss an opportunity for theatrics, occasionally burst into exaggerated renditions of whatever song was playing, much to Remus's amusement and Eddie's bewildered fascination.

My eyes flickered towards Sirius and Remus. Their shoulders occasionally brushed as they passed the joint, a flicker of a smile or a whispered comment traded between them. There was a new softness in Remus's eyes when he looked at Sirius, a tenderness I hadn't seen before. A wave of happiness washed over me; after so many years of witnessing their complicated dance of friendship and unspoken longing, the open affection was a heartwarming sight.

Then, like a burst of vibrant energy cutting through the dimness, ABBA's iconic melodies filled the room. Lily and Dorcas appeared at my side, their laughter echoing as they grabbed my hands and pulled me away from the smoky corner and into the heart of the dance floor.

The three of us twirled and swayed with reckless abandon, our voices joining the chorus of singing partygoers. Dizzying lights spun around me, casting the world into a kaleidoscope of colors and hazy edges. Lily's angel wings shimmered, catching the flashing lights with every spin. Dorcas let out a wild whoop of delight as she kicked her fishnet-clad legs high in the air. And I, swept away by the music and the infectious joy of my friends, danced as if no one was watching, my moth wings rustling gently with each step.

In the aftermath of the ABBA craze, James materialized, a mischievous glint in his eyes and a shot glass clutched in each hand.

"Shots for the Evans girls?" he declared; his voice thick with the effects of the potent punch.

Never one to back down from a challenge, I grinned and tossed back the fiery liquid. It burned a familiar path down my throat, momentarily grounding me in the swirling chaos. The alcohol warmed my veins, fueling a heady recklessness that danced just beneath the surface of my control.

More smoke, more shots, more laughter echoed around me. The hours seemed to dissolve, the party transforming into a pulsating blur of colors, music, and carefree moments. My inhibitions, usually so carefully guarded, retreated like a frightened animal.

At some point, the room began to spin. I stumbled slightly, clinging to a stone pillar for support, and glanced around. The realization hit me like a cold splash of water. It was nearing the end of the night, and couples were beginning to drift away in pairs.

Lily and James leaned against each other, their laughter quieter, tinged with a sweetness that spoke of plans yet to be made. Sirius had an arm slung casually over Remus's shoulder, their heads bent close in a whispered conversation seemingly oblivious to the thinning crowd around them. Even Katie and Eddie had disappeared, most likely to find a quiet corner of their own.

A pang of loneliness struck me, an unexpected chill amidst the warmth of the alcohol and the lingering smoke. My meticulously constructed armor, the carefree facade built on laughter and drinks, began to crack under the weight of a bittersweet realization.

The truth settled over me, as stark and unavoidable as the cold stone beneath my palm: I was alone.

Oh, my friends were still there, a comforting presence a mere glance away. But in their stolen glances, their shared smiles, their quiet intimacy, there was a reminder of what I lacked.

The music, moments ago a beacon of joy, now grated on my nerves. The laughter echoing around the dungeon no longer felt like my own. I was adrift, caught between the retreating tide of merry chaos and the sobering dawn that lurked just beyond the castle walls.

A shaky breath escaped me, and I pushed myself away from the pillar. The world swayed and dipped, the edges of my vision blurring uncomfortably. With a determination born more of desperation than true bravery, I navigated my way out of the dungeon.

With each wobbly step away from the heart of the party, the weight of isolation pressed down upon me. The laughter and music faded into a muffled backdrop against the pounding in my head. The darkness of the dungeons, previously a source of secretive thrill, now seemed to press in from all sides, mirroring the encroaching shadows within.

My feet, clad in fishnet stockings and ridiculous platform shoes, seemed to have a mind of their own. The corridors twisted and turned, each corner revealing another stretch of dimly lit stone and echoing silence. With no clear destination and a growing sense of disorientation, I simply kept moving, propelled forward by a stubborn refusal to succumb to the overwhelming weariness that threatened to drag me down.

Then, like a specter materialized from the dimness, Regulus Black stepped out from a shadowy alcove. His sudden appearance sent a jolt of unpleasant surprise through my alcohol-addled system. Of course, even in the depths of the dungeons, on a night fueled by reckless abandon, I couldn't escape him. His presence was a chilling reminder that the darkness I sought to avoid was woven into the very fabric of our world.

He wore no costume, no playful mask to hide behind. Just his usual dark clothes and an expression of cool disdain that seemed permanently etched onto his pale features. The flickering torchlight played across his face, casting stark shadows that accentuated the sharp lines of his cheekbones and the icy glint in his eyes.

"Great," I slurred, the word heavy on my tongue. "Bloody fantastic." A bitter laugh escaped me, echoing strangely in the empty corridor.

He didn't respond immediately, just observed me with a dark amusement that sent a shiver down my spine. The silence stretched, punctuated only by my uneven breathing and the faint echo of his own footsteps. Finally, he spoke, his voice a low drawl that cut through the haze in my head with unsettling clarity.

"Fitting, you'd be a moth," he remarked, a sneer twisting his lips.

Indignation sparked within me, a flicker of defiance pushing back against the creeping despair. I crossed my arms defensively, the motion causing the world to lurch uncomfortably.

"Figures you'd be the one to get it right," I retorted, my words tripping over each other in my drunken state. Frustration gnawed at me as I fumbled with the intricate fastenings of my mask. "People have been calling me a butterfly all night," I grumbled, finally ripping the mask away from my face.

He let out a short, humorless laugh. "You're too dark for a mere butterfly, Evans," His words were laced with a cruel amusement, a calculated jab aimed at the shadows he saw lurking within me.

"Says you," I mumbled, more to myself than to him. "Now, if you'll excuse me," I made a move to step past him, determined to continue my aimless wandering, but he was quicker.

Before I could react, he shifted, blocking my path. His presence loomed over me, the scent of old parchment and something darker clinging to him like a second skin. An involuntary shiver ran down my spine.

"Wrong way," he declared with a smirk, "unless you're looking to sneak into the Slytherin dorms?" The suggestion hung heavy in the air between us.

My face flushed hot with a mixture of anger and a reluctant, traitorous heat. His suggestive tone, the way his eyes raked over me with a predatory gleam, ignited a familiar battle within me. Revulsion warred with a flicker of shameful excitement, a recognition of the dangerous magnetism he exuded.

"Don't flatter yourself, Black," I spat, struggling to maintain an air of defiance. "I'd rather face a dragon than spend another minute in your company."

A wave of nausea washed over me. The alcohol sloshed uncomfortably in my stomach, and the room spun with renewed vigor. I needed to get away from him, from the darkness he embodied, from the temptation to dance with the shadows that both horrified and fascinated me.

"Get out of my way," I demanded, my voice laced with a desperation that bordered on pleading. To my surprise, he stepped aside, a flicker of something I couldn't decipher passing through his eyes. My escape from Regulus was short-lived. The corridor seemed to warp and stretch before me, the floor tilting at alarming angles. Just as I thought I was free, I stumbled, my knees nearly buckling beneath me. A gasp escaped my lips as the world lurched sickeningly.

Before I could fully comprehend what was happening, a hand shot out, gripping my elbow with surprising strength. The sudden support halted my impending collision with the cold stone floor. I whirled around, my glare fueled by a mixture of indignation and the unsettling dizziness that threatened to send me sprawling.

There he was, of course. His pale face was etched with a frown, his eyes narrowed in a mixture of annoyance and what might have been reluctant concern.

"You're sloshed," he stated flatly. There was an accusatory note in his voice, as though my inebriated state was a personal affront to him.

"What a clever boy you are," I snapped, my words slurring slightly. "Mummy must be so proud."

He tightened his grip on my elbow, a flicker of anger replacing the disdain in his eyes. "Stop being so bloody difficult, Evans," he hissed, his voice barely above a whisper.

A defiant hiccup bubbled up from my throat, a ridiculous counterpoint to the seriousness of the situation. The room spun alarmingly, my vision blurring at the edges. "Why don't you," another hiccup interrupted me, "go back to whatever creepy activities you were up to?" I managed, the words dripping with forced sarcasm.

To my immense annoyance, he didn't let go. His grip remained firm on my arm, a constant reminder of his presence and my own vulnerability. The room tilted dangerously once more, and a wave of nausea washed over me.

"If you'd like to stumble around like a fool until you pass out, or something," he paused, the unspoken threat hanging in the air, "far worse than me happens upon you, then be my guest." His words were harsh, laced with a bitter truth I couldn't fully process in my disoriented state.

"N-not many people are creepier than you," I managed to bite out, but the retort lacked its usual conviction. Fear, an unwelcome guest at this drunken party in my mind, began to gnaw at the edges of my bravado.

He let out a sigh, a sound filled with a strange mixture of exasperation and resignation.

"I'm taking you back to your common room." The statement wasn't a question, but a declaration delivered with the same cold certainty he'd used to taunt me earlier.

My stomach lurched violently, a stark reminder of the potent punch coursing through my veins. The battle was lost. I couldn't fight him, couldn't argue, could barely stand on my own. Defeat, bitter and acrid, settled in my throat as I reluctantly nodded, the gesture causing the room to spin wildly.

His grip on my arm tightened as he began to lead me forward. The world blurred into a kaleidoscope of torchlight and shadows. With a jolt of disorientation, I realized he was walking in the opposite direction of the Gryffindor common room.

"Wrong way!" I protested, my voice a hoarse whisper.

He didn't slow his pace, his strides long and purposeful.

"Taking a shortcut," he replied curtly. His tone brooked no argument, leaving me to stumble in his wake, fighting back the waves of nausea and the unwelcome realization that I was entirely at his mercy.

The corridor twisted and turned, each step a perilous journey. Panic bubbled beneath my drunken haze. Where was he taking me? What were his intentions? The darkness, once held at bay by the boisterous energy of the party, now pressed in from all sides. I tried to focus on his back, on the rhythm of his footsteps, but my vision swam, and the world seemed to tilt on its axis.

The shortcut, it turned out, was a winding labyrinth of narrow passages and forgotten stairwells. It was as if Regulus was leading me deeper into the bowels of the castle, away from the lingering warmth of the party and into the very heart of the ancient stone.

His grip on my elbow tightened as we navigated the uneven ground. I stumbled repeatedly, my vision blurring and my legs threatening to give out beneath me. It was only his unwavering hold that kept me from collapsing into an unceremonious heap.

After a particularly vicious stumble, his hand shifted from my elbow to my waist. The unexpected contact sent a jolt through my alcohol-addled system. It wasn't overtly intimate, more a pragmatic adjustment to better support my faltering steps, but the warmth of his hand seeping through my dress sent a strange shiver down my spine. A shiver that had nothing to do with the chill of the dungeon.

The silence between us was deafening, broken only by our uneven footsteps and my labored breathing. I longed to break it, to hurl accusations, to demand explanations, but my tongue felt heavy and uncooperative. Instead, the quiet gnawed at me, amplifying my disorientation and the growing fear that clawed at my insides.

Finally, unable to bear the oppressive silence any longer, I managed to croak out a question.

"Why are you being so..." my voice faltered as a wave of nausea washed over me. I swallowed, forcing back the bile rising in my throat. "Unlike yourself," I finished weakly.

A harsh laugh escaped him. "It's not as if you know me, Evans," he muttered, the words barely audible over the echo of our footsteps.

His dismissive response was a slap in the face, a brutal reminder of the chasm that divided us. True, we were bound together by the invisible threads of this war, but our understanding of each other was as shallow as a puddle after a summer rain.

He continued; his voice laced with a bitter cynicism that mirrored my own growing despair. "Besides, I just don't fancy being blamed..." he paused, searching for the right words, "if something were to happen to you in this state."

A chill shot through me at his words, his implication hanging heavy in the air like a poisonous fog. The thought sent a fresh wave of shame washing over me. To have stumbled so spectacularly, to need his assistance, was humiliation enough. But for there to be witnesses to my disgrace.

Our pace slowed as we neared the familiar territory of the castle kitchens. The tantalizing scent of roasting meat and freshly baked bread drifted through the air, a tantalizing reminder of the warmth and comfort that awaited at the end of this treacherous journey. With each step, the realization that I would soon face my housemates settled over me like a suffocating cloak.

The weight of his hand on my waist was a constant presence, a grounding force amidst the chaos swirling in my head. Yet, beneath the necessity of his touch, I couldn't help but feel a flicker of unease. This strange, forced intimacy was both a source of stability and a constant reminder of my own vulnerability.

As we reached the top of a short flight of stairs leading away from the kitchens, I finally found the courage to look up at him. Our eyes met, and something shifted between us, an unspoken acknowledgment of the absurdity of the situation.

"Thank you," I murmured, the words barely audible above the pounding in my head. My voice was thick with a mixture of gratitude, mortification, and the lingering effects of the potent party punch.

We paused at the bottom of the stairs, the warmth of the brightly lit kitchens a stark contrast to the cool darkness of the corridor. The entrance to the Hufflepuff common room, concealed behind a stack of enormous barrels, was a mere few steps away.

For an extended moment, he said nothing. Instead, he met my gaze, his own eyes surprisingly unreadable. There was none of the usual cold disdain, nor the cruel mockery I had come to expect. Instead, his expression was... almost guarded, a strange blend of detachment and something I couldn't quite define.

"For not being a prick," I clarified softly, a flicker of defiance reigniting within me.

He let out a short, humorless laugh, the sound echoing strangely in the dimly lit corridor.

"Don't mention it, Evans," he finally replied, his voice devoid of any warmth but laced with a touch of sardonic resignation. A renewed wave of dizziness washed over me, threatening to send me tumbling. I blinked rapidly, struggling to maintain focus. The alcohol swirled in my veins, making the world tilt and warp at an alarming rate.

"Sorry," I managed to mumble, feeling the weight of embarrassment crashing down upon me, "I can't... think straight..."

He seemed to understand. A flicker of something akin to concern flitted across his face, a fleeting emotion that contradicted his carefully manufactured reputation as heartless.

His gaze drifted down to his polished black shoes, as if seeking an escape from the uncomfortable moment of vulnerability that had briefly settled between us. When he looked back up, the familiar mask of indifference was back in place.

"Get some rest," he said curtly, any hint of softness gone from his voice.

The disorientation washed over me in relentless waves. The corridor, once so familiar, seemed to blur and distort. I clung to the barrel beside me, fighting to maintain a semblance of composure as the room spun. In the flickering light, Regulus Black seemed to transform before my eyes. The harsh angles of his face softened, the sneer replaced by a flicker of amusement, the shadows retreating as if the darkness within him was momentarily held at bay.

For a dangerous, disorienting moment, he was simply a boy. A boy with tousled dark hair and surprisingly kind eyes. I could almost convince myself that this was an ordinary scene, a boy seeing a girl safely home, an echo of countless, innocent teenage interactions.

Then, the absurdity of the situation hit me with full force. This was Regulus Black, the boy who haunted the Astronomy Tower, who reveled in cruelty and whispered promises of violence. This fleeting moment of unexpected connection was an illusion, a mirage shimmering in the depths of my alcohol-fueled haze. The spell was broken as another wave of nausea crashed over me, leaving me weak and disoriented. I turned away, desperate to find the sanctuary of my common room, to escape both his disconcerting presence and the relentless assault on my senses.

Fumbling for balance, I glanced back at him, my vision blurring. "You... you're quite pretty, you know that?" I slurred, the words tumbling out before I could comprehend their full impact.

His head snapped up, his eyes widening in startled amusement. I was instantly mortified, a flush of heat flooding my cheeks as the room spun dizzily around me. But through the haze, I also saw it – the flash of surprise, the way his lips twitched in a hint of an unguarded smile. It was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by a cool composure that I couldn't help but admire even in my drunken stupor.

"Go to bed, Evans," he commanded, though there was a strange gentleness in his tone, as if humoring a foolish child.

A wave of exhaustion washed over me, rendering further argument impossible. With a final unsteady wave and a slurred

“Night.”

I turned towards the barrels that masked the entrance to my common room. As I fumbled with the rhythm required to open the hidden passage, I couldn't shake the feeling that I had stumbled not only through the dungeons but also through my own preconceptions.

My vision swam, the barrels blurring and shifting before me. The rhythm, usually as familiar as my own heartbeat, seemed impossible to grasp. Panic began to bubble up, threatening to consume the last vestiges of my composure. Just as I was about to sink to my knees in defeat, a pair of hands appeared before me, their movements sure and steady. Regulus, it seemed, wasn't quite done with his unexpected role as my unlikely savior.

He tapped the barrels with his wand, a precise cadence I was too far gone to decipher. The massive wooden forms swung open, revealing the cozy warmth of the Hufflepuff common room.

"Go," he said, his voice low and strangely devoid of mockery.

With a last grateful glance in his direction, I stumbled over the threshold. As the entrance swung shut behind me, obscuring his figure from view, I felt an overwhelming sense of relief wash over me. I had made it. I was safe, at least for now.

The walk to my dormitory was a blur. My feet moved through familiar motions, propelled by instinct more than any conscious effort. The scent of honey and warm wood, the welcoming yellow glow that seemed to radiate from the very walls, enveloped me like a comforting embrace.

Finally, reaching the sanctuary of my bed, I collapsed into a heap of disheveled party attire and drunken exhaustion.

#regulus black #regulus deserved better #sirius and regulus #regulus black x oc #regulus being a little shit #regulus x hufflepuff reader #regulus x you #regulus x reader #regulus is a little shit #regulus x oc reader #the marauders era #the maruaders #original character

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careful-please · 1 year

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Her giggles were high and bright. Her little legs raced through the courtyard fast as a whip. He wild hair swept back by the speed with which she dodged his great big hands. He was laughing too; loud and boisterous. Delighting in the chase even as she continued to surprise him with her speed. It felt like she grew faster and stronger every day.

Finally he snatched up her tiny frame and smothered her flushed face and brilliant smile with his auburn whiskers. She wiggled and squirmed in his grasp as he growled playfully.

"Naughty children will be fed to the frost giants."

"Noooooo. Daddyyyyy."

Her whine is quickly interrupted with more bubbling laughter as his clever fingers worm there way to her most sensitive soft spots. The tickling carries on for several minutes before the stubborn girl finally cries uncle, begging mercy breathlessly.

He chuckles as he peppers her chubby face with kisses, enveloping her fully in his thick arms. The safest place she could ever be and the happiest he has ever been. Paradise could not compare to the love he feels for his child in this rare moment.

#gow #god of war #gowr #thor gow #gow thrud #i almost made myself cry #thor needs more love #he deserved better #carefulwrites

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bonefall · 1 year

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What cats look different in your head then how their described in the books? Are there any cats or protagonist you would like the change the descriptions of?

Personally huge fan of white Frostpaw and pale brown or red toned Dovewing

Hmm...

WELL for one I can't handle Sparkpelt being a Firestar clone. Famously in my rewrite she isn't related to him at all, but even in canon I can't see her as anything other than a "flaming tiger." She's got thick black stripes, a white belly, and a bright orange pelt.

In my rewrite she's an 'auburn' tiger.

Shadowsight is fluffy

Dovewing is big

Millie turned into a silver cat while I wasn't looking and I don't abide by that nonsense. Millie brown.

Most ThunderClan cats are really big, actually. I don't abide by every female cat being "sleek" as a pretty trait, ThunderClan mollies are massive and fluffy.

OH OH I imagine ALL WindClan cats have tail tufts. It's a signature WindClan trait along with their skinniness-- it helps them follow each other in tall grass when they stick their tails right up

While I'm at it, SkyClan's tails are prehensile and they have a way more developed dewclaw, RiverClan is consistently longer than they are tall like fish or otters, and ShadowClan has huge eyes and bright whiskers.

#Bone Babble

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cathymadpenguinartprincess00 · 1 year

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The Bad Guys: Human Jessica “Jessie” Catfish/The Auburn Whiskers

This is what Jessie looks like if she were a human inspired by @katrinthecat herself. Since she’s a model and sportswoman athlete, I decided to make her persona in Betty Deville from “Rugrats” (1991/2021) with her twang tone of Kate McKinnon herself. Not to mention, her characterization of a personality of a teenager even though she is 29 years old whilst being a beauty charmer to boys including Mr. Piranha(her latest victim/current boyfriend) himself.

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nirikeehan · 2 years

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HAPPY FRIDAY NIRI I'M SO EXCITED FOR YOUR NEW AU!!! could I request some Blackwall/Cullen/Thalia (with Pravin questioning Thalia's life choices) + “Time for my favorite pastime.” “Which is?” “Drowning my problems in ridiculous amounts booze!”?

OMG HI this was an incredible prompt. I'm so glad I finally had a chance to fill it.

Two notes: 1) Part of this fic was inspired by me yelling about the political implications of Blackwall's crimes to my bestie which in turn was inspired by modern Russian politics, look at me using my degree lmfao 2) bestie and I have outlined an alternate version of the "underworld connections" option to springing Blackwall from prison, which supposes Pravin was directly involved in the escape and convinced Blackwall to shave off his beard in the process. I loved that idea and ran with it for this scene.

As always, Pravin aka "Fidencio Frye" belongs to the lovely @monocytogenes

For @dadrunkwriting

WC: 2105

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Pravin liked the Herald’s Rest tavern because it had good food, excellent drink, mediocre entertainment, and a fascinating cross-section of civilization upon which to eavesdrop. Leliana’s intelligence reports were all well and good, but sometimes it served a bard to simply go amongst the people and see what he could learn.

He spied his cousin first, her distinctive auburn hair standing out amidst a crowd of soldiers in still-donned helms and Orlesian visitors in shiny masks. She sat at a long wooden table, back to the door. (How many times did he have to warn her not to do that? It wasn’t safe.) Across from her was a man with long black hair and recently shorn whiskers. Without the beard to hide behind, Thom Rainier became painfully easy to read. The redness to his complexion suggested he was already deep in his cups, and the sneer on his handsome lips as he spoke indicated he was hurling an insult. Even though the din and distance prevented Pravin from hearing exactly what was spoken, the stiffening of Thalia’s shoulders proved it landed as intended. She turned and launched herself off the bench, fleeing.

Fury boiled in Pravin’s stomach. Thalia, blinded by emotion, did not see him standing there, and tried to push past him to the door. He caught her elbow. “Hey, hey. What’s wrong?”

Thalia looked at him, startled. Her eyelids held a sheen of tears, which she blinked against furiously. “What? Oh, Pravin, I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there.” She ignored his question.

“What did he say to you?”

“Nothing.” She wiped at her eye with a knuckle.

This only stoked Pravin’s anger. “It didn’t look like nothing.”

“Pravin, please. Just leave it alone.”

Thalia tried to pull away, a move Pravin expertly redirected, turning her around.

“Hey, look who just came in.” He pointed to the far corner of the room, where Commander Cullen sat with a giant stack of reports for company. The Maker himself couldn’t have planned it better. “Why don’t you go say hi?”

Thalia shot her cousin a scathing look. “He looks busy.”

“Are you kidding? He looks like he’s dying for someone to give him an excuse to stop working. Here.” Pravin guided Thalia to the bar, where he fished out a handful of coins and slapped them in front of Cabot. “I’ll take two of your best ales.”

When the barkeep set them down firmly on the countertop, Pravin grabbed them and shoved them into Thalia’s hands. “One for you, one for the Commander.”

Thalia’s eyes widened. “You want me to go over there and just—?”

“Hand him one, yes,” Pravin cut her off emphatically. “Trust me on this.”

Thalia glanced dubiously at the frothing steins, but inhaled deeply and nodded. “All right, fine.”

She marched to the Commander’s alcove with straight posture and clear determination. She was nothing if not tenacious, his little cousin.

Pravin waited until she reached Cullen and said hello, noted the way he looked up immediately at her approach, the smile that slid involuntarily onto his face when he saw her. Satisfied, Pravin turned back to Cabot. “I’ll have two more, please.”

“You got it,” the dwarf replied, heading to the same large barrel behind the bar. Upon his return, Pravin gave a generous tip and asked, “What’s the mood out there?”

“Restless.” Cabot swept the coins from the counter into his pocket.

Pravin had always appreciated Cabot’s laconic yet honest attitude. They’d had a bit of an understanding since Cabot had come to Skyhold: Pravin ridiculously overpaid for his service, and Cabot reciprocated with a little extra information. Pravin inclined his head toward Rainier’s table. “That one been giving you any trouble?”

Cabot squinted. “Him? Nah. Always pays his tab and keeps to himself, mostly. Been here a lot lately, but can’t say I blame him on that score.”

Pravin thought he caught a twinge of sympathy in Cabot’s voice, which surprised him. “And there haven’t been any incidents since— you know?”

“Not really.” Cabot shrugged. “There’s been whispers, of course. Few Orlesian soldiers got drunk and taunted him, but he just left. Got no reason not to serve him.”

“I wasn’t suggesting you stop serving him,” Pravin said quickly.

“Good,” Cabot grunted. “‘Cause if I had to cut off every bastard around here who may have committed a crime, I’d go out of business.”

“I think we’re a little past may with Rainier, Cabot,” Pravin said drily.

Cabot gave him a hard look. “Only because Celene’s still Empress, my bardic friend.”

Pravin sighed. “Point taken, Cabot. You have a good night.”

“Always do,” Cabot deadpanned, polishing a glass.

Pravin retrieved the ale and strode over to the table where Rainier sat, staring at the bottom of his stein like he might be able to divine his future in there. It was, as Pravin had suspected, empty.

“This seat taken?” Pravin asked, but didn’t wait for an answer before sitting.

Rainier glanced up, his eyes narrowing. “Well, well, well, if it isn’t Fidencio fucking Frye,” he slurred in a dangerously nasty tone.

Being drunk had the extraordinary effect of somehow making the man’s Marcher accent even thicker. Pravin tried not to grimace. He’d heard similar voices on fools in stage productions, playing up the peasant inflection for comedic affect. Thomas Rainier was a walking self-parody. What the hell did Thalia see in this lout?

“What are you doing?” Pravin asked, exasperated.

“Engaging in my favorite pastime,” Rainier sneered. “Drowning my problems in ridiculous amounts of booze.”

Pravin stifled another sigh. This was going to be more difficult than he’d hoped. “Well then, let me top you off.” He slid one of the steins over to Rainier’s side of the table. Strictly speaking, it was probably a bad idea to give him more alcohol, but Rainier was a big man. It would take a lot to knock him down entirely.

Rainier eyed the new glass suspiciously. Pravin remembered his little tantrum at his judgment all too well, when Rainier had gone on about hidden arrows taking him out if he refused to pledge allegiance to the Inquisition. Pravin had found it a touch melodramatic, but the small bit of color that had remained in Thalia’s face drained entirely when he said it.

“It isn’t poisoned, if that’s what you’re wondering,” Pravin commented, raising his own stein and taking a hearty sip.

Rainier grunted, but picked up the ale all the same. How easy might it be to poison him? No, no, Thalia would never forgive Pravin for that. He had to try a less direct approach.

“You need to leave her alone,” he warned, his tone light but firm.

Rainier’s grey eyes flashed at him over the rim of the metal stein. “Me? She’s the one who keeps putting herself in my way.”

“And whose fault is that, eh? Maybe you should have thought twice before pursuing a woman half your own age.”

Rainier’s meaty hand formed a fist and pounded the tabletop. “I told her, dammit! I told her half a hundred times it was a bad idea, it would never work—”

“Yet you did nothing to stop it from happening,” Pravin said quietly.

“Oh, I did plenty. Except a bloody bard had to appear outside my jail cell and muck it all up.”

They held each other’s gaze. Pravin could sense the rage simmering beneath his exterior, which incited his own. He had no desire to revisit the series of events that had taken Thom Rainier from the prison in Val Royeaux to Skyhold. He had risked much and more to return this shit stain to Thalia, and so far Pravin had seen no return on the investment. They had barely maintained plausible deniability with the Orlesian crown, and this was the first of Thalia’s calls as Inquisitor that people questioned. Restless, Cabot said, confirming a suspicion Pravin had harbored for some weeks. Many at Skyhold held the opinion that Rainier should not be walking around free, and his continued presence among them made things precarious for Thalia — all because Rainier had to go and make a big spectacle about his crimes.

“You know,” Pravin said, his stomach churning with the venom he felt, “it’s not so much the treason I mind, but the stupidity.”

“Excuse me?” Rainier looked so affronted that Pravin wanted to punch him in the face, the one that looked all too familiar now that he’d shorn away the beard. Pravin remembered the fight that had been, once he’d smuggled Rainier out of the prison, as if losing the facial hair meant losing his very soul. But the authorities were looking for a bearded man, not a clean-shaven one, and at last he’d relented. When he’d emerged from the privy in the safe house bare-faced, Pravin had recognized him immediately.

That he’d existed under Pravin’s nose for months, a man he’d remembered from their time spent in certain libertine circles, infuriated him.

“You heard me,” Pravin said. “So you took coin to betray your country. So what? Traitors like you are a copper a dozen, Rainier. It’s that you’d got away with it, scot free, even had a convincing new identity you wore so well. And then you threw it all away, and created a giant mess the rest of us had to clean up — for what?”

“For honor,” Rainier snapped.

“Honor means horse shit when you’re dead,” Pravin countered. “And you don’t even have the common sense to be grateful.”

Silence fell between them. Rainier took a slow breath and raised his drink to his mouth; Pravin could tell he’d rattled him.

“Typical,” Rainier muttered into his drink. “What would a man like you know about honor?”

“More than you might think,” Pravin said, sneaking a glance over his shoulder. Thalia sat with Cullen, going over reports with him as the two chatted. Pravin even spotted a grin on Thalia’s face. That warmed his heart, despite the terrible company he currently kept.

“Adopted country,” Rainier mumbled.

Pravin faced front again, raising an eyebrow. “What did you say?”

“You said I took coin to betray my country. Orlais was never my country, not really.” Rainier set down his stein with the precision of one drunk enough he worried he might drop it. He stared at it, refusing to meet Pravin’s eyes. “I’m sure that was part of their calculus.”

Pravin frowned, inclining his head. “How so?”

“Oh, you know how it works, Frye. You want to usurp the ruler, yet maintain a respectable distance. So you hire someone. Then he hires someone — a foreigner, gone too far above his station, too ambitious for his own good. Someone they can trace the crime to quickly and point fingers at. Because he’s just a degenerate, not even one of us — of course it was him, got the whole family, the kiddies too. Depraved, perverse, but not surprising. What do we even expect, when we let people like that in?”

Pravin watched Rainier in unsettled silence. Perhaps the man was quicker than Pravin had given him credit for.

“I was always supposed to get caught,” Rainier said softly. “I was blind not to see it. But that’s what greed does to you. You think you can stay one step ahead, beat ‘em at their own game.” He raised his gaze at last, steading it on Pravin. “But you know as well as I do, don’t you? You can’t beat the Orlesians at their own game.”

Slowly, throat tight, Pravin nodded.

“Call it stupidity, or honor, or fuck all, I don’t care.” Rainier took the stein and drained the last of his ale, grimacing as he swallowed. “I owed my men some dignity. I owed Thalia some dignity. I had to balance the bloody scales.”

In the quiet that followed, Pravin leaned back in his seat and nursed his ale. Rainier swayed a little in his seat, but did not try to stand. Pravin had a feeling he’d be the one Rainier would lean on while stumbling back to the stables later. I ought to leave him in the bushes, he thought, but his heart was no longer in it.

Rainier propped his chin up under one hand, his eyes glazed and wandering. Pravin did not turn to follow it, but the way Rainier’s expression softened, Pravin knew what he’d found.

“She looks happy,” he murmured.

“Mmhm,” Pravin agreed.

Rainier scrubbed his hand down his face, scratched at the dark stubble covering his jaw. “She deserves to be happy,” he said, miserably.

“Mmhm.”

The mediocre minstrel queued up one of her breathy songs, and Pravin considered ordering another round.

#pravinquisition #thalia trevelyan #pravin talavera #blackwall #blackwall x trevelyan #cullen x trevelyan #the love triangle that never ends #cabot makes a cameo and i'm into it #fics #dragon age drunk writing circle #dragon age inquisition

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